


One Shot, One Kill: A Johnlock Story

by SugarlockandMoriartea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 16:03:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5011003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarlockandMoriartea/pseuds/SugarlockandMoriartea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John just witnessed his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, jump off of St.Barts at what his therapist reffers to as "The Reichenbach Fall." To cope with his feelings, he spends a day at a gun range, where he meets someone who gives him an offer that could change his life forever.</p><p>Meanwhile, Sherlock works missions for Mycroft, eager for the day he will be able to come back home to John, which turns out to be sooner than expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Release

[A fanfic based off the BBC show Sherlock. I do not own any of these characters, save Spencer, Mary Nell, and Onuchi. The story is set after the Reichenbach Fall. We hear from Sherlock chapter 2, just in case you were wondering]

 

They played the game

and Sherlock took the blame

The building seemed so tall

as he watched his best friend fall

But time goes on, it flows like sand

and now John Watson is a broken man

 

John had just gotten out of his first therapy session in a long time. Less than a week ago, he had been sharing a flat with his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, and now he was visiting his grave. Ella Tompson, his therapist, had listened to John for over an hour as he broke down piece by piece. The man who had shaped him into who he was today was gone. ‘The most human human being’ he had ever met, as John put it.

“You need a way to vent your feelings,” Ella had recommended, "You need to find a release."

John had no idea what that meant. His thoughts redirected to Sherlock. How did he release? He thought back to when John found Sherlock on the couch at 221B, shooting rounds into the wall.

"Oh how exciting it was while Sher..." he paused, "No. I can't mull over this."

He recalled that he had an old handgun from when he liked to practice while in Afghanistan, the same gun he had used to save Sherlock when they first met. He dug through his old drawers and duffel bags, searching for the gun. He finally found the case where he kept it stored, and carefully opened the box. He picked up the gun and pointed it towards the wall, his form perfect. He may have been an army doctor, but he knew how to shoot. He placed the gun back in the black velvet box, and walked out of the flat into the busy london street.

John hailed a cab and informed the driver of his destination. His thoughts wandered to the first case he and John had ever faced together. He peeked into the mirror of the car and breathed a sigh of relief when it wasnt the homicidal cabbie or Moriarty. But they're both dead, he reminded himself. 

The car came to a halt and John stepped onto the sidewalk in front of a shooting range. He took a deep breath and walked towards the door, the gravel crunching beneath his boots. He swung open the heavy door and stepped into the air-conditioned building.

"Hey mate. Ya need anythin?" A tall middle-aged man stepped out from behind the counter.

"Um, a bit o' ammo and a few rounds on the range," He smirked a bit, and, wanting to test himself, he said, "I'm looking for a bit of a challenge. Maybe get on the wall of honor over there."

He pointed towards a framed target that was sitting on the wall.

"Haha. Well I doubt you could beat him. He's been comin' here since I opened this place."

The two men walked over to the wall for a closer look. "John S.M." the name read. The target was in the outline of a man, as most were at shooting ranges, and hat two holes square in the heart, and the other just a little off.

"Wow," John whispered, then in a louder voice, "He's pretty good, but I bet i could put three holes right in the center."

"You sure?" the cashier asked, taken aback, "This is from 1,000 yards! Not to mention the wind today."

"I can handle it," John replied, unfazed, "but this handgun won't do," he continued as he held up his velvet box, "so I'm going to need to rent some equipment, and if possible, I'd like to use .338 Lapua magnum bullets."

"You sure know your stuff." The man mumbled as he pulled out the gear, "Tell ya what, if you can beat ol' John's best over there even in this wind, you don't have to pay for this round. I'll give ya four bullets, one for practice."

"I won't need practice." The smirk still lingering playfully on his face as he followed the shop owner out the door towards the range.

Once they had the target set up, John situated himself with the gun and the conditions. The wind had died down a bit, but it was still fairly strong. He took a deep breath as he looked though the scope and adjusted himself, his finger hovered over the trigger. Adrenaline rushed through his veins. It had been a while since he had done this, but he felt like it was yeaterday. He pulled the trigger with as much confidence as the young man on his first day of military training. He adjusted himself and fired two more shots at the target. He disassembled the sniper rifle and walked over to where the man was sitting a few feet away.

"Lets go see how you did, eh?"

They took a hike down to where the target was in total silence. Once they got close enough to see, a wide grin took up half of John's face. Three holes, right in the center, just as John had promised. The cashier's mouth stood agape as he began to clap slowly.

"Well done, mate. Well done," he praised in disbelief. "Lets go hang it up!"

The two men headed back to the building and put up John's gun. The cashier, Mike, took down the old framned target just as the bell signaled that the front door had been opened. Both men's heads jerked upwards to look at who came in. 

Staring at Watson's target was a tall, fit, blond man. He grinned as he walked towards John.

"Nice Shot!!!" he exclaimed. "Someone finally beat me! I'm John, by the way."


	2. Mission

Sherlock's coat whipped behind him as he stepped out of the airport gate into the lobby. He turned his collar up as he walked briskly towards the door. He had an appointment. He bruched past many other people rushing to their respective flights, then Sherlock slowed down. No rush. Moriarty's voice echoed in his mind and he smirked. Soon his entire criminal web would be brought down and William Sherlock Scott Holmes would get to go back to 221B Baker Street, and none too soon. He leaned over the shoulder of a girl to see what she was so invested in on her phone. Oh, Sherlock thought to himself as he continued walking. Silly little people and their silly little shows. Goldfish. Mycroft's voice. He remembered that Molly had tried to get him into that series... Revolving around two brothers who fight monsters and fall in love with angels, or something of the sort.

He continued outside to where a sleek black car was waiting for him. He opened the door to the backseat and stepped in with one swift motion. In the backseat was "Anthea" and one more person.

"Hello... Mr.Spencer, is it? Sniper, Doctor Who fan.. American! Not full time for Mycroft though are you? Hm... Wonder what you're doing here then," Sherlock made the deductions without so much as a glance at the blond, average height man.

"So what they told me about is true." Spencer replied to Sherlock's 'introduction' with a smile, "Here. Standard issue for the Mission. I've already got yours." He handed Sherlock a folder with his profile.

Name: Spencer H[CLASSIFIED]

Height: 5'9"

"Occupation": Journalist

Specialty: Sniper, Con-man

"A partner?!" Sherlock stared out of the window, "Why would Mycroft assign me a partner?"

"This isn't just your average mission, Sherlock," Anthea spoke for the first time, still focused on her phone.

"Is he trying to kill me?" Sherlock exclaimed, not listening, "A partner..."

"OOOOOKKAAAYYY, Princess!" Spencer replied sarcastically, raising his voice. The man was obviously amused at Sherlock's antics. "Before you decide you'd rather go solo, you gotta see the mission briefing. You'll be glad to have backup."

"Too late.." Sherlock mumbled.

Spencer opened up another folder and pulled out a stack of papers.

"Here. These are from Mycroft."

On the top of the stack was a letter from Sherlock's brother.

Dear brother mine,

I assume that by this time you are with Spencer and Anthea. You must have many questions, one of which is probably along the lines of "Is Mycroft trying to murder me? A partner?" but you needn't worry. I expect you to come out of this mission alive...

Sherlock laughed a bit at this part, wondering when the last time Mycroft ever cared about his safety was.

...I've already informed Spencer of your ways, and have asked him to kindly refrain from punching you in the face whenever you open your mouth, but understand that this will be very hard, so if he does, please excuse him, it's not his fault.

The rest of the letter was about being on his best behavior, listening to Spencer, etc. Which Sherlock quickly dismissed. He finished leafing through the papers and looked back up at Spencer and Anthea.

"So basically we kidnap the mafia leader using that plan," Spencer said as he pointed to the papers on Sherlock's lap, "then we threaten him, using his daughter's safety as leverage, and eventually end up with the stolen plans back in our lap. After that we turn the man over to the police. It's a bit more complicated then that, but those are the basics."

"Not too bad. Remind me why I need you again?" Sherlock questioned bitterly.

"Con-men. Takes one to know one," Spencer replied cheerily, flashing a grin at the clearly annoyed consulting detective, "He won't crack unless we have definitive proof that his daughter is in danger. While you and the rest of the gang, whom you'll meet at base, go-"

"The rest of the gang!?!?" Sherlock exclaimed, "Mycroft really is trying to murder me,"

By this time, Spencer was getting tired of his partner's complaints.

"Okay. Listen up, Drama Queen. You either shut up and join us, or we dump you right out onto the street where you can sit and whine all you want. Maybe, if you stand out there long enough, people will think you're a beggar and drop you a coin so you can buy your own plane ticket home, huh?" 

Sherlock, surprised at Spencer's outburst actually shut up for the rest of the car ride as his mind wandered. Drama Queen John had called him that once. John. How Sherlock missed John. He had no idea why his feelings were doing that funny little thing that made his stomach turn in knots, and a little burst of dopamine was released when he heard John's name, but Sherlock just dismissed it as separation anxiety.

An excruciatingly painful ten minutes later, the car arrived at what looked like an abandoned building. The three passengers stepped out onto the concrete, overgrown with weeds and grass.

"Alright. Home, sweet home. C'mon Sherly," Spencer said with a wink, his past anger forgotten.

"I'll be there in a minute," Sherlock responded tentatively.

"Whatever you say, your majesty."

Sherlock walked over to a rusty payphone sitting on the wall of the building. He hesitated, then grabbed the phone and reached into his pocket, pulling some coins out. He slipped the cold, metal disks into the slot, praying the phone would work. He dialed in the number he had memorized before jumping off of St.Barts. As the phone rang out, Sherlock began to chide himself. Sherlock, don't submit yourself to these childish habits. You're better than these petty actions. The message phone beeped, and he knew what he was doing was so... pathetic, but he couldn't help himself as he began talking. 

"Ah, hello, John. I know you won't ever hear this because I hid this cell under the floorboards in the flat, and..." Sherlock paused, thinking of what to say, "I'm going on a mission, John. Could be dangerous. If you were here you'd probably love it. What are you up to now, back at London? I hope you aren't too broken up about the whole fake suicide thing. I mean I made it pretty clear to you that I was alive becuase of that 'last phone call note,' right? 'Just a magic trick?'" Sherlock began to waver. Maybe it wasn't so clear?

"I have urgent business now, but I'll call again soon. Goodbye for now, John."

Sherlock laughed at himself, knowing what he just did was so stupid, but he couldn't help smiling as he walked into the building.


	3. Recruit

"Nice Shot!!!" he exclaimed, "Someone finally beat me! I'm John, by the way, but you can call me Jack. What's your name?"

"Uh..." John stammered. So this was the guy whose record he had just beaten. "I'm John. John Watson."

Jack stuck his hand out and the two men shook. Short, firm, business-like.

"You actually beat my record, and what, in this wind? Amazing!"

John stayed humbly silent, but he he couldn't help being quite proud of his skill set. The two men sat down on an old, worn couch starting up conversation. John talked about his military training, which Jack also had, of course, and a great variety of other topics as well, even getting into debates about which guns they preferred in different conditions. Thirty minutes had passed when Jack stood up.

"You seem to really know what you're doing, huh?"

"Well, yeah, I guess," John could see in the other man's body language and tone that he was going somewhere with this, but John couldn't tell where.

"Why don't we take a walk outside while we wait for our cabs to come, yeah?"

John obliged, but he was guarded and on full alert. Something didn't seem quite right about this.

The two men walked up to where the gravel met the dark, asphalt road and stopped. Jack reached into the pocket of his jacket to pull something out. John nearly panicked, but decided that the bulge in his pocket wasn't large enough to be a gun, or the right shape to be a knife, and relaxed a bit. It was probably just his cell or something like that.

Jack took out his wallet and showed John a badge, which he took for closer inspection.

"Scotland Yard. We'd like to hire you, Mr.Watson. We know all about your background and training, and I've now seen a great display of your skill. It would truly be an honor to have you on our team."

John was taken aback. Scotland Yard? Of all the possible scenarios that had run through his mind, this was definitely not one of them. He examined the badge that Jack had given him. No sign of fraud, everything was perfect.

As John was deciding how to respond to the sudden change of events, a cab pulled up.

"Well, Dr.Watson, I know this decision requires time to think, so when you come to a conclusion, call me," Jack took back hid badge and gave John a white business card, and left without another word. John stood at the curb, thousands of answerless questions running through his mind.

He stood there for five minutes, waiting for his cab, turning the card over in this hands, running his finger over the frayed edges of the expensive paper. The only writing on the card was a phone number pressed in silver on the paper. Also imprinted faintly, but still noticeable, was an image of birds, a raven, perhaps.

At that moment, John's cab arrived to the gun range, and the blogger stuffed the card into his pocket and took the entire journey home in silence. Even more so when he passed 221B Baker Street.

When John got back to his small-but-cozy personal flat, he promptly dropped onto the couch and got out the card again. He picked up his cell, dialed the number, and hesitated. Instead of calling, he saved the number. He then set the card on his coffee table and shuffled to the kitchen to make a cuppa tea.

Hours passed as John tried to do the newspaper crossword puzzle while watching the news on the telly. By 10:00 pm, John found himself back at the phone. He stared at the bright, white screen, finger hovering over the call button like the trigger to a gun. He closed his eyes and fired. He held the phone to his ear, and within one ring, someone picked up.

"Ah, Mr.Watson, A question?" Jack's voice sang on the other end of the line.

"No; I've made a decision."


End file.
